A Mine is a Terrible Thing to Waste
by Hawki
Summary: Oneshot: If there's one thing that space has taught us, it's that we should never, EVER, try to explore it. Seriously, it just wants to kills us.


**A Mine is a Terrible Thing to Waste**

"Let's see…if we're going to operate a mining vessel we need soldiers. And warships. And nukes. And a good looking burly white dude who gets to be our hero while-"

"Um, don't you think we should be focusing more on mining equipment and, y'know, miners?"

"Sir, haven't you ever operated a mining ship?"

Heath had to admit that he hadn't. He'd never operated a mining ship. He'd only got the position by fluke. Earth needed resources, especially after that moon invasion decades ago, and anyone who'd got any flight experience was being given the mandate of "get out there and mine, and get paid for it!"

"Heath?"

So no, he hadn't ever operated a mining ship. And his silence had given Jacob Clarke everything he needed to know.

"Knew it."

Case in point.

The two men continued walking through the corridors of the _Canan_ – a deep space vessel designed for operation within asteroid fields. Not the most efficient method of gathering resources, given the distance that existed between bolides within planetary systems, but cheaper, and well within the company's capabilities given the loss of billions in both lives and credits back in that…kafuffle. But still…

"I'm just saying," Heath protested, "we should be focusing on qualified staff. Equipment. Gear."

 _People better at the job than me._

"We are," Jacob responded, glancing at him with his cybernetic eye – Heath didn't know what was up with that, apart from his XO responding that "losing eyes runs in the family." Whatever that meant. "Soldiers, guns. Proper guns, mind you."

"Jacob-"

"And no micro-transactions," he snapped. "If you want me sailing with you, I want everything up front. I don't want some bloody courier ship bringing piecemeal crap to us on an irregular basis."

Heath nodded glumly. Right now, Jacob was acting as if he ran the ship. All in all, he'd be happy to let him do so. He figured that claims of insanity if things went south would be easier to pin on with a cyborg eye and whatnot.

The two reached the bridge, and Heath noticed two things. One, space was big. Two, _Also Sprach Zarathustra_ was playing. Third, everyone had a sidearm.

 _Wait, that's three things._

"So, anyway," Jacob said. "You do your commanding. Or conquering. Whatever."

He went to walk off. And only at the last moment did Heath grab his arm. As Jacob glared at him, he suddenly felt like he was a monkey looking at a monolith. Or marker. He wasn't sure about the difference.

"Listen, Jacob," he began.

"Clarke."

"Fine, Clarke," he said. "I know you're more experienced than me-"

"Damn straight."

"And that you don't have too high of an opinion of me…"

"I don't."

"And you think I'm stating the obvious…"

"You are."

 _And that you've got no tact you stuck up piece of-_ "But I was wondering," Heath said quickly. "Is it…y'know…" He gestured at the helmsman. Particularly the oversized gun that was attached to his waist. "Is this…really necessary?"

Jacob ( _no, Clarke_ , he reminded himself,) sighed. "You really are that clueless aren't you?"

Heath didn't say anything.

"Heath, let me tell you something," Clarke said. "If there's one thing that reality and science fiction has told us it's hat space miners are the most expendable sods in the universe, even more than the slightly less expendable soldiers sent to rescue them. You mine in space, you're guaranteed to run across something nasty. And unstoppable. And that guns can hold it off, but blowing it up is the only way to go in the end."

"That's…a bit narrow minded isn't it?"

Clarke shrugged. "It's how it always happens. It's how Earth got fucked after all."

Heath frowned – he wasn't alive back then. Not even Jacob was, given his age. It was probably the most extreme population pyramid in human history, with so few at the top, and so many at the bottom. Standard demographic, but…well, it was a _very_ narrow top, to say the least.

"Point is," Jacob said, "space is nasty. So when the shit inevitably hits the fan, least we can do is be prepared for it."

And he walked off. Standing there, Heath let him. Reflecting on his words. His strange, crazy-sounding yet also rational words. And also reflecting that he really didn't want to be captain.

After all, how many times was the captain the hero of a story?


End file.
